


How Justice and Rissa Fell in Love Again, and Other Tales

by HannahTheScribe



Series: Contrivance [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Architects, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Break Up, Break Up Talk, Breaking Up & Making Up, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Co-workers, Companion Piece, Dark Past, Depression, Drama, Dubious Science, Dystopia, Elections, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, Enemy Lovers, Exes, Experimentation, F/F, Falling In Love, Female Characters, Female Protagonist, Female Relationships, Female-Centric, Fights, Flashbacks, Future, Geniuses, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Government, Government Agencies, Government Experimentation, Harm to Children, Hate to Love, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt, Idiots in Love, Insomnia, Introspection, Knives, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), LGBTQ Themes, Love, Love/Hate, Making Up, Medication, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Minor Injuries, Multi, Mutual Pining, Near Future, Nightmares, No Lesbians Die, Office, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Queer Character, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Physical Abuse, Pining, Political Campaigns, Politics, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Break Up, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Queer Character, Queer Culture, Queer Families, Queer Friendly, Rebellion, Rebels, Revolution, Revolutionaries, Rival Relationship, Rivalry, Romance, Romantic Angst, Science, Science Experiments, Science Fiction, Secret Organizations, Secrets, Security Clearance, Self-Harm, Sex Work, Sexual Abuse, Social Experiments, Sparring, Strong Female Characters, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, Trauma, Treason, Unethical Experimentation, Unrequited Hate, Useless Lesbians, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Women Being Awesome, Work, Workplace, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahTheScribe/pseuds/HannahTheScribe
Summary: Justice can't handle the moral implications of her job as a Deviser, creating Contrivance, an elaborate, televised simulation of an apocalyptic social collapse scenario.  But leaving to run for office in hopes of change provides challenges of its own.  Leaving the Devisers she loves, especially a certain challenging ex (or two). A political rival and revolutionary ally she keeps ending up in bed with.  Life beyond Contrivance Headquarters proves unbearable, and when she returns with new hopes in mind, she still has plenty of bridges to rebuild.Backstory companion of theContrivanceseries. Can be read independently.
Relationships: Justice Levana/Licinius Clark, Justice Levana/Ritter Denken, Rissa Denken/Justice Levana, Rissa Denken/Ritter Denken
Series: Contrivance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871
Kudos: 3





	How Justice and Rissa Fell in Love Again, and Other Tales

**Author's Note:**

> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/contrivance-requests/).
> 
> Want fun extras like character art and fonts? Check [this](https://hannahthescribe.com/contrivance/%22) out.

There was a note on the dining table.

And then Ritter was scrambling over the guard rail on the roof of Contrivance Headquarters, the only things between him and a ten story fall a slippery grip on the metal rail and inches of rooftop, not enough to stand on without that grip.

Rissa, next to him, closed her eyes for a moment. A waist length mass of red curls blew tangled in the wind. "I wanted to be alone, you know."

"I..." He had nothing good to say. He had nothing good to _do._ He couldn't force her back over the railing; she'd fight him every step of the way and they'd both plummet to their deaths with three inches of space to fight on. "I love you. Just come inside. We'll figure it out. We'll fix it. Please."

 _Where the fuck is security?_ Supposedly right behind him, shouting at the nearest agent as he'd left the apartment after desperately checking the Devisers' tracker screen; maybe they wanted to show up with more than a plea.

"Fix _what_?" She said it for him: "Fix me? I don't think so."

"That's not—there's nothing wrong with _you,_ okay? There's a lot of shit wrong with depression and there's a lot of shit wrong with the world. I can't promise the world but, God, we can—"

"We've tried. We've tried and we've _tried._ It's not enough. It's not _going_ to be enough."

Security burst onto the roof from behind them, approached through the rooftop garden.

Rissa swore and let go of the railing. Ritter made some kind of sound between _no_ and a scream and a gasp and just managed to grab her arm as she slipped, one hand on her and one hand on the railing and not able to hold anything for long, desperation more than strength. His glasses shattered ten stories below them.

But security had reached them. "Fuck, just let _go_!" she screamed at him, voice raw with pain. Her shoulder was probably dislocated. His was going to give any minute, dependent on luck and three inches of balancing space to put the weight on. _Fuck. Oh, God. Fuck._ His heart pounding somewhere in his throat.

One agent steadied him from behind the railing; another hopped over it and added a hand to his grasp on Rissa, other side; they pulled her up; she screamed and swore and more agents from behind the railing managed to get a grip on her upper body and pull her over the railing despite her flailing and kicking and screaming.

"Let me go, fuck you, you can't—fuck—let _go of me_!"

The one who had steadied Ritter gave him a hand back over the railing, as another managed to plunge a syringe of sedatives into Rissa's arm, still in the grasp of the others. Her eyes, a storm brewing in the gray, set on Ritter as the drugs rapidly started to take hold. A slurred, "You should've let me—"

And she was out.

...

Sitting next to Rissa's bedside in an intake room, holding her hand, bouncing his leg nervously. Contrivance Headquarters Medical Center. His own shoulder was just sprained _._ Ice, sling, drugs. New glasses. Her shoulder was in fact dislocated, set back into place before she was fully conscious, and also given ice, sling, more drugs.

She wasn't _un_ conscious at any point so much as not verbal and basically limp. As if on the very edge of sleep.

Malka showed up quickly, said, "Well," and sat next to him.

"Well."

This was the calm before the second storm. Rissa stirring as the drugs wore off, one shoulder in a sling, one scarred wrist cuffed to the hospital bed. She looked smaller like that. Smaller than when her entire body weight dangled ten stories up by Ritter's slipping grasp. Now, she just kind of looked like the 5'3, yet all muscle brown belt (judo and Krav Maga both) that her medical chart said. A solid eight inches shorter than him.

"I never pretended she would get easier to manage," said Malka. An understatement. She'd used many words for Rissa over the years, from tempestuous to incendiary.

She had met Rissa as a malnourished, bruised eighteen year old who somehow bypassed security and stood in the doorway of Malka's office with a Deviser college program application and the offer of restoring BetContrivance, the world's largest Contrivance result betting and gambling system, which had gone down that morning and seemed unfixable. Whether or not Rissa basically admitted to treason when it became obvious she was the one who _took_ it down, her application was accepted by the end of the day. Malka had thought martial arts might get out some energy, help her feel more secure.

Ritter, another first year intern at the time, met her months later, got on the rollercoaster that was loving Rissa, and they had married a year after they both graduated and successfully became Devisers. A year later, here they were.

...

It was not a pretty scene when Rissa woke, and the next few weeks were much of the same.

There were several problems with keeping a Deviser in the medical center as a psychiatric patient.

One, the usual day to day activities of a psych ward—the group sessions—were lacking. Transfer wouldn't have helped because the last thing anyone wanted was a widely hated government official—any Deviser—in a public ward full of patients who thought they had nothing to lose and a desire to hurt themselves _or others._ Not to mention the mess that was classified information, complicating even individual sessions when you had to talk around and around and around her job. A deeply unwilling patient did not help anything.

Lottery dictated one household from each state to participate in Contrivance each year. Odds of finding someone in a local psych ward who was connected in some way was likely. Whether it was someone from the one household each year that survived the elaborate, televised simulation of an apocalyptic social collapse scenario, someone grieving a death, another government employee that just couldn't take it anymore... 

Without that structure that included things like _visiting hours_ , Ritter stayed with her until she screamed at him to leave or fell asleep, usually a conversation of at most thirty minutes, then would attend a meeting if there was one going on, then return. If not, he'd sit in the hall and work from a lapdesk. There didn't seem to be eating or sleeping in this routine, which concerned Malka.

Very, very patient government medical staff tried to get Rissa to talk through anything she could. It was a process kind of like pulling teeth, when the person was trying to bite you.

Where did you start? Her mother, and the postpartum depression that took a turn for the psychotic, and a turn for the numbing drugs found on the street? Her father, and the way a newborn and a wife in that state sent him to alcohol and violence? Sixteen years of a physically, sexually, psychologically abusive hellscape? Did you start with the runaway who got picked up by a pimp within weeks? Did you start with the fresh hell of prostitution? Did you start with the treasonous eighteen year old who slipped out of sex trafficking's grasp to land in Malka's office? Did you start with the fact that _all_ Devisers fell asleep at their desks and woke screaming from the nightmares of what they created, that they really couldn't much leave Headquarters for fear of the loathing public? That they were all paranoid wrecks even if they were without any PTSD from _before_?

Ah, how their lives were so safely contained to this one building. Of course the way to go was to throw oneself off of it.

Neither Malka nor Ritter had any real hope the staff would get anywhere, just that in a few weeks, Rissa would be sick of the medical center, calm down, and agree to whatever conditions got her out of it. Then, she could be closely watched (as usual) and home, in their apartment, downstairs. And at work, downstairs.

...

"You're an idiot," Malka said, looking at the papers Rissa had handed her.

"Whatever."

"Your psych team leader tells me you have a 160 IQ. Of course, they only tested you because you presented with _possible intellectual disability_ due to your choices _._ "

"Don't tell me you believe in the IQ crap."

"He's the only one who's going to help you, Rissa." She waved the divorce petition at her.

"He's out of fucking tries."

"Very well." Malka walked out of the room, stuck the papers in the first paper shredder she found, and when she passed Ritter in the hall, advised, "Tread carefully."

But of course, Rissa would've expected that, her usual dramatics aside.

...

Slowly, Rissa seemed to return to what could be called her normal.

If he voluntarily gave her a bit of space in her waking hours without doctors too close, Ritter was able to go two or three full days at a time without even what was much more like one of their typical spats than a total meltdown. They easily bitched about work and she teased him for forgetting to take his own damn meds (of course, the stimulants for ADHD). And said that even if she couldn't get her hands on a weapon, she wanted out of here and into the Contrivance Headquarters gym with her judo and krav coach.

As all Devisers were workaholics, she started demanding that she be allowed to do what she could of her job, which was granted hesitantly, with restrictions. This admittedly set Malka in a much better mood, because Rissa's department of one was basically _if no one else can fix it, give it to Rissa._ She had never fit neatly into—well, any role anyone wanted her to be in, but—the tech department, which she was skilled in, or the urban department, whose message tags and other designations she got, or the environmental department, with her husband. Problems started disappearing when Rissa's department of one was reinstated, of the magnitude that had always justified the problem that was Rissa herself.

She started to take her meds without any fussing, and no longer wandered around the medical center looking for something sharp or otherwise useful, or bolt for the elevator, though it was clearly in her thoughts. She told the staff what they wanted to hear, if it was rather empty. She slept at night as much as normal, which meant hours to fall asleep once she was talked into it, curled up on her good side (without the healing shoulder) against Ritter's good side (without the healing shoulder), and him stroking her hair and their usual bets on who would wake screaming first if they slept at all.

But, they let her go home.

...

And so, perhaps a year later, it seemed very small for him, in the grand scheme of things, to look at her, and look at Justice, the first year Deviser, an architectural and engineering genius whose job was anything from designing sturdy looking bridges that collapsed at the right moment to planning cities that would go up in beautiful flames in an instant, and say, "Okay."

It had always been on the table—someone else. And here that _someone else_ was. A benign looking, pretty strawberry blonde whose eyes, a sea green a few shades off Ritter's hazel, lit up when someone asked about government given incentives for buying homes in known flood zones. _A nice Jewish girl from Portland,_ Malka, the former New Yorker with twelve years of Jewish private school behind her, would say. 

Of course, because nothing was that simple, Rissa refused to admit it was _someone else_. They didn't label it. Her and Justice. _Him_ and Justice, which was less, but there. He understood why. It was not a problem of polyamory or bisexuality or simple denial—the fact was...

She had doubts. They all had doubts.

To be a Deviser was to hate Contrivance. Deeply and passionately, even. To turn that hatred inward and think, _If you're going to be a monster, you should be excellent at it._ And Contrivance, cinematic perfection and simulation genius, went on.

They all did that.

But Justice... Justice, like Rissa, in a way, was a person of action. They were relentless in their jobs and in their martial arts practices and in their relationship with each other.

And with each passing day, Justice loathed Contrivance more and more. She had always relentlessly chased action and change and innovation and _revolution._

...

Justice knocked on Malka’s office door, though it was open.

“Come in,” said Malka, seeing the signs of a longer conversation. Justice closed the door behind her and placed a small, neat pile of papers on Malka’s desk. “What’s this?” Malka asked, starting to skim.

“I’m resigning,” Justice said. “Effective immediately.”

Malka nodded slowly. Put the papers down. “I think you’re making a terrible mistake.”

“I know,” Justice said. “For what it’s worth, it’s nothing personal.”

“I’m sure Rissa took kindly to you telling her that.”

Justice avoided Malka’s eyes.

“You haven’t told her.”

“Not yet.”

“Wanted to get some distance first?” Malka asked. 

Justice shook her head. “No, I… I didn’t want her to dissuade me.”

“ _Can_ you be dissuaded?”

“… No, actually.” The time for that had passed; this news didn’t come as a terrible shock. An unpleasant inevitability, maybe.

“You understand… you are….” Even Malka seemed at a loss for words. “Cutting a lot of connections with this.”

“I understand. I do. I just—I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“You cannot deal with the greater moral complications of Contrivance no matter how personally attached you are to its creators.”

"Yes." 

“It’s… a complicated situation,” Malka said. “Do you have plans from here?”

Justice shrugged. “I don’t need to find another job immediately. When I’m ready, I have architectural qualifications. I… spoke with the construction crew lead, about the… top floor... roof addition. I'll contribute to that until it’s finished.”

“How romantic a gesture.”

“If it keeps her safe…”

“I know,” Malka said, trying to take back the mocking tone. “If you would like extra time to move out, whatnot, I can see—”

“No,” Justice said. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“Want to get some distance?” Malka asked again. 

“I… was thinking Rockville. Maryland.”

Malka laughed. It didn’t sound quite right, but it could be called a laugh. But what she said wasn’t what Justice expected. “You want to run for office.”

“I—what?”

“I’m not stupid, Justice. Why leave DC but barely so? Plenty of good jobs for you here, nice places to live. If you really wanted a change of scenery, or distance, you would try New York, Boston, or somewhere out west. You have no family in Maryland. But what does it get you? Eligibility to run for a position that gets a vote. Have a platform to speak out against Contrivance on. The House, I presume?”

“… Yes.”

“You really do want to cut your ties, don’t you? I know,” she said, when Justice started to speak, cutting her off. “It’s not about that. You can’t live with yourself doing this—in a way beyond what we all mean when we all say it—and you are willing to give up what you have here, willing if deeply unhappy, to pursue making it right.”

“Yes.” Pause. “I’m sure it’s the least of your concerns, but if I’m really fucking you over in anything work wise, I’ll see what I can do.”

Malka shook her head. It really was the least of anyone’s concerns. She couldn’t even think about that right now. And— “It probably really is better for you to get some distance.”

Justice nodded. “I’d advise you to give that—” she gestured to the papers “—and a vague statement to the press, and let the others have their first reactions without either of us there. I’ll be home.”

“No one you want to tell yourself?”

“No more than you do.”

Cruel, maybe, but fair enough. “If you wanted to return…” Malka wasn’t sure how exactly to finish that sentence. “I’m sure, barring extreme circumstances, your job here would be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” Justice said. “For everything. … I should go.”

“I wish you well.”

“I’ll miss you,” said Justice, moving towards the door. “And everyone else.” She looked like she was going to elaborate, didn’t, looked away. “I’m sorry.” Her hand was on the doorknob of Malka’s office door. She turned. “I…” She tried to breathe. “When they won’t hear it from me anymore… send the others my love. And regrets.”

“Of course.” There was one thing Justice wouldn’t say. Malka, in a rare moment of mercy, said it for her. “I’ll keep an eye on Rissa.”

“Thank you.” She started to say something else again, didn’t. “Thank you.” With that, she was gone.

...

Justice knew this pain had been inevitable almost the whole time. She had known early on she was not meant for this, that she couldn’t bear to stay, that she needed to follow what was right—but she also couldn’t bear to leave. The sooner she did, the easier it would be, but she kept clinging to hope for that much longer, unable to tear herself away.

When the knock on her door came, she opened it.

“So, you finally did it,” Rissa said.

“You’re not surprised.” Her voice sounded weak. Rissa’s voice was at the least, soft. Eerily calm, for now.

“No.”

“I…” _Was apparently hoping you’d cut me off and explain for me._ She trailed off, the silence thick and too long.

“You’re right, I’m not surprised.”

“It’s not about you.”

“No, it’s just about what I am,” said Rissa, frost slipping into her voice, the frost that had been outside on the nights they stayed warm under the blankets, when things were different, when things were—

“I love _you_. You’re not just Contrivance.”

“We can’t do this. We don’t get to do this. You chose. You know what you chose. So, fine. Go. Go, then, and tell the press about how ‘the workload’ got to you and add to that story again and again. Then it’ll be the implications of that work. And the fucked up people doing it. And another thing and another thing. You’ll tell them that and you’ll tell yourself that and I'll always be the villain who corrupted you for those few _beautiful_ moments, and you’ll be the hero who went to the dark side and came back. I won’t keep you. But when you curse how close I got to changing your mind, remember how badly you wanted to let me.”

“You hate Contrivance, too.”

“We all hate Contrivance, Justice. None of us have quit. It’s not about Contrivance. It’s about us.”

“I just can’t get past what we do." 

“Then go be the hero.”

“Rissa—please—” she clutched Rissa’s arm “—I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so fucking much but I _can’t_ —I can’t _do_ this—but I love you. Please. Please know that. God, don’t ever doubt that.” Her hands moved to Rissa’s hair, she clung to her and kissed her—long, desperate, passionate kisses, tears streaking her face. Rissa kissed her too; when she managed to tear herself away, it wasn’t only Justice’s tears on her cheeks, and she sighed as she let go of where she’d been clutching at Justice’s shirt.

“I love _you_ ,” Rissa said, shakily. “But it’s not enough to keep you, apparently.” She took two steps back. “If it ever is, let me know.” With that, she turned and left quickly. Justice let her go.

…

Malka saw Rissa almost in Justice’s apartment on the tracker screen, then alone for a while, or with Ritter, before she appeared in Malka’s office, the door slamming behind her.

“I—” she started, trying to come up with something clever, suited to her usual facade of anger. “I—” Her voice broke, and she burst into tears, what looked like not the first time.

She let Malka hold her, cried and cried, wordless. Malka was sure others had seen her anger, and was sure she would later—but anger for Rissa was usually a defense mechanism, to not react like this instead, a way that she deemed weaker—and she had been pushed beyond ability to use that defense. Malka rubbed her back.

Rissa sniffled, and drew back from her. Malka found tissues somewhere in her desk and offered them. Rissa took them, tried to clean herself up. Her face was red, her eyes too. “It’s her fault.”

It probably was. “She loves you,” Malka told her.

“I know. I _know._ She’s just so fucking _stupid,_ ” Rissa half sobbed. “How could she do this? What doesn’t she _get_?”

“There are a lot of complications.”

“And she couldn’t see past them. She—she—” Rissa was hyperventilating more than speaking. “I love her, too,” she said with what breath she had, tears still shining in her eyes. “She’s stupid and terrible and a traitor and I love her and…” She gasped for air again. “And I don’t remember how to _breathe_.”

“Sit,” said Malka, guiding her to the couch. At her desk, sent a rather curt, quick message to the interns’ office for water, stood by Rissa’s side again, said, “Deep breaths,” firmly.

Rissa tried. “I hate her. I know, I know, I love her. I hate her, too. I’m a hypocrite. I sound like I should be picking daisy petals.”

“I can’t blame you,” Malka said, “for almost anything you’re feeling right now.” It was an uncharacteristic thing to say, but some circumstances were beyond her usual methods.

“She’s a fucking idiot and a backstabber and a liar—” the intern knocked; Malka answered it; Rissa cut herself off. Malka handed Rissa the water, closed the door again. Rissa choked, trying to get water down. Spoke softer, still gasping for breath. “And she’s brilliant and noble and gentle and I hate her and I love her and I—“

“ _You_ need to keep breathing.”

Rissa did. Desperate breaths. Spluttered, drinking the water. Sobbed. Someone else knocked; Malka checked hesitantly. Ritter. Malka simply let him in, closed the door again. He sat next to Rissa; she curled up against his side, buried her face in his shoulder. He kept one tight arm around her shoulders, looked at Malka as if pleading for answers, but she shook her head silently.

“I hate her,” Rissa told Ritter.

“I know,” he said.

“And I love her.”

“I know,” he said. “God, I know.”

...

Justice fell asleep right after dinner, barely making it from the table of leftover pizza to her unmade bed. Sometimes she couldn’t sleep; sometimes she couldn’t stop.

She woke maybe four hours later from a nightmare she barely remembered, and didn't sleep again, another four hours of trying to sleep, failing, tossing, turning, tears, getting more water, adjusting the thermostat, tossing, turning—

She resorted to a vice she hadn’t resorted to in a while. She called to hear Rissa’s voicemail message.

Once, a few too many times in one night, and finally Rissa actually picked up.

Realizing the phone had been picked up, Justice had whispered her name helplessly.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You should've thought of that.” Click.

Justice called less after that, but tonight she couldn’t help it.

Tonight, the phone got picked up again, though this time a voice came quickly. “Hey. It’s me.”

It was Ritter.

“Hey,” she gasped, sitting up in bed, surprised. “Hey.” She felt lost. A million things she wanted to say, a million things she couldn’t. “How—how are you?” _Don’t hang up._ As much as she thought of Rissa… Ritter, too, she missed, loved, needed.

“I’m okay.”

“How… how is she?”

“She’s… okay.” _You broke her heart._

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I miss you. Both of you. All of you.”

_Practice sessions Rissa ducked out on early due to some work issue, Ritter joking to Justice he’d fight her, too, the way they laughed, the way she’d gone easy on him as they just tussled. Late nights when she couldn’t sleep, using Ritter as a pillow on the couch while they both read, books they’d recommended to each other. Arguments between meetings over the politics of some event well before either of their memories, Rissa rolling her eyes at the two of them, the way they shouted in agreement and contradiction both. Early morning mix ups of glasses as they tried to get coffee down fast enough to be awake before work. The concerned glances they’d shared when Rissa refused to take her meds again. Ritter squeezing her hand when she was anxious, their intertwined fingers resting on the leg he was bouncing. The day trips into Virginia or Maryland they’d taken to go to used bookstores where the dust shone in the rays of sun coming in through the windows. All the—_

“I know. I… shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know,” she said. “But… thank you.”

“I should go.”

There wasn’t really anything to say, as much as there was everything to say. Nothing was actually going to fix this mess. There was no point in dragging this out. In making small talk, or doing painful reminiscing. “I love you.”

Quiet. “I love you, too,” he said, and hung up.

…

Three weeks later she got a package she wasn’t expecting, opened it suspiciously. There was no note, no return address, just a few books, and Ritter’s messy handwriting in the margins.

It took everything she had to not dwell on how to respond; she read all of them faster than she had read anything at all lately, and finally mailed back a few different books, her own handwriting in the margins.

It took her months to stop waiting for a response.

....

Licinius Clark was a piece of shit. The young man running against Justice for the House had spiky, feathery blonde hair and these bright green eyes that reminded her, clichely, of snakes. He might have been handsome, if she didn't loathe him with every atom of her being. She was very aware that they were too much alike, that they ran on all but identical platforms at their very very core but that they disagreed on the execution, and that he was just such a dick about it, it didn't matter.

Backstage, at a debate the moderator lost control of three minutes into the questions, the two shouting and setting a record for words that had to be censored in a locally televised American political debate, Licinius had the nerve to come up to her and say, "Afterparty at my place?"

And she went with him. They both took public transit and got a few looks but did not get mauled, and his apartment was kind of a mix of a college dorm vibe and a respectable adult living by themselves vibe, and weirdly not like a bachelor pad. And they drank copious amounts of some expensive wine, then screwdrivers, then shitty vodka that had looked at orange juice once, and he said the word _revolution_ and he said, "Why did you really leave Contrivance?" and she said:

"Because it's wrong." Which she had all but said on the debate stage.

And he grinned, and then he said, "So what kept you so long?"

And she said, "There was a girl."

And he said, "There's always a girl."

And she snapped, "You don't understand."

And he said, "I don't," and not so much for that as for the whole night, she slapped him, and he slapped her right back, and then she pulled him into a dizzying kiss that might not have been so dizzying if they had not had so many drinks, and he mumbled, "I thought there was a girl," and she hit him again, and she woke up in his bed the next morning with fingertip bruises and matted hair and broken glasses, and one more questionable life choice down.

…

It had been nine months since she had left Contrivance, and she found herself at one of those dusty used bookstores, browsing an aisle when, turning from a shelf to go around to the next aisle, she nearly ran into someone. “Sorry,” she got out quickly, and then, “Fuck.” Ritter. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He looked at her. She looked at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Stupid question.

“It’s the place to be for environmental law nerds.” He held up the book in his hand. _Bodies of Water, Bodies of Law._

“It’s good,” she said, nodding towards it. “You’ll like it. I read it a few months ago.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“You mentioned it. At the last debate.” He shrugged. “Finding it was luck.”

“You watched the debate?”

“Of course.”

_What do you mean “of course”? You owe me nothing._

“You were great,” he added quietly.

“I—thanks.” She shifted nervously. Her eyes flitted around the aisle. “Are you…?”

“It’s just me.”

He could still read her mind a little. She nodded. Wasn’t sure quite what came over her when she flung her arms around his neck and embraced him tightly. “It’s not ‘just’ you,” she whispered.

She was surprised, relieved, overcome by guilt and happiness both, when he hugged her back, just as tight, his arms painfully familiar. “I know.”

Letting go, letting him go buy the book and leave, felt as hard as watching Rissa leave the last time they’d been together.

…

The next month, July, brought Contrivance, and Justice watched eagerly. A more rural setting, a series of landslides, and fuck, Ritter’s timing with them was perfect. The way the clouds settled low over those mountains was something Justice remembered Malka trying to master and not succeeding at, too far from the high up environmental controls; but it seemed she’d done it.

November brought the election, her defeat.

December, a text from Ritter. _I’m sorry. Clark’s a piece of work. Happy holidays._

Justice turned from her phone and glared at Licinius, asleep next to her. _You have no idea. Nice landslides. Happy holidays._

Silence. A few more packages of books.

...

Nothing ever managed to feel quite _right._

The debate stage was never as familiar as far too long meetings with the others and especially… Rissa.

The view from her apartment was of the wrong city, and her mind spun up brilliant Devising ideas she couldn’t use, and empty rally speeches she could. Licinius said _you should meet my friends_ and there were safehouses and supply chains and incriminating newsletters left handwritten and coded in parks and elections and _hope._

But she wanted...

Not this.

_I should get a job._

She didn’t. She buried herself in reading, krav lessons, ideas she couldn’t use, things she couldn’t do, things she couldn’t say.

She watched that year’s Contrivance eagerly, even if it meant she woke screaming with more frequency than she had in a long time.

They had not done much to replace her architectural work.

Though, in the more rural choice of setting, the volcanic eruptions at the core of the onset of the crisis—the simulation set earlier than usual—were brilliant, and could only be Ritter’s work.

Her plan—more a making up of her mind—was done by the end of Contrivance.

When it was over, the post Contrivance craziness settled just enough to see the Devisers alone in their offices, back to morning meetings and maybe end of day ones, she walked into the lobby of Contrivance Headquarters, got on the elevator to the right floor, and swiftly went to Malka’s office, closed the door behind her, letting out a breath when she didn’t run into anyone else. Security would let her through—former employee, and she had returned for the roof project—but the Devisers... 

Malka looked up, startled. “Justice,” she said, her tone undetectable. Then, maybe amused, “I’m surprised you got past the others.”

Justice didn’t answer—she was also pleasantly surprised—but she simply, as she had the last time she was here, gave Malka a stack of papers. Though this time she nearly threw them onto the desk in front of her.

Malka looked at them and almost laughed, breathed. An application. “You should know I’m resigning today.”

She’d really said nothing of it publicly, and Justice would suspect not to the Devisers either, the way Malka handled things, but the timing was about right. A good thing she came in today, then—unless maybe Malka had just decided. “I figured it had to be soon.” Pause. “But if you’re telling me that, I assume that’s a yes.”

“I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that we went a bit more rural two years in a row. You can start Monday. With our new Lead, and I believe one other new hire. I will get you set up before then, and you can move back into your old apartment whenever you like, if you give me a few minutes to deal with some of the paperwork.” She also paused. “Making any other visits before Monday?”

“No.”

“Probably wise." She didn't press, might even know better than Justice how that would go. “How have you been?”

Justice shook her head. “Wrong. Not myself. I hate Maryland.”

“I thought you might.”

“How are… things around here?”

“Oh, all the joys of post Contrivance PR, not to mention stepping down.”

“You’re in for a long night of notifications.”

“You would know. There’s all the usual, my resignation, new Lead, new hire… now you. A lot of changes.” Small pause again. “You’ll like Lavender, I think.”

 _I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to take over in the middle of this PR nightmare._ She still knew little more than her name. She wasn’t concerned with anyone new.

Justice figured Malka was probably thrilled on the work side of both of those things, and probably pissed she was stepping down before she could use it herself. The thought made her laugh. “And Ritter will be happy he’s not pretending to be knowledgeable beyond basic ecology. Though you let him have some good geology work on this last run.”

“That was always his real specialty.”

Silence. It went on a little too long.

“I think you’ve made the right decision,” Malka said. “Whatever the others will think.”

Justice nodded. She prayed she had.

“Though I was surprised you lost the election. I didn’t expect you’d be running against someone like Clark. But I suspect that results aside, you… enjoyed the challenge.”

Well, Malka had told her some still secret news, and had clearly already guessed, so Justice supplied, “We may have… come to an understanding. Gotten out some of the aggression in… various ways.”

It made Malka smile in amusement, at least.

…

“Come on,” said Licinius, with a weird gentility Justice didn’t like on him. Not with her. He wore mocking and asperity better. “You know this isn’t what you want.” He gestured around her apartment in Contrivance Headquarters, her old one, her new one.

“You don’t know what I want,” she snapped at him. “This is the only place I ever belonged.”

“Oh, so that’s why you shut the door behind me so fast? Because everyone here is so accepting of you? I don’t see any welcome baskets.”

“It’s not… they’re not like that anyway.”

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t mean to imply the professional murderers were famous for their welcome baskets.”

“What the fuck is your problem today?”

“Uh, _my_ problem? I found out from Channel 8, that’s how my day is going.”

“It’s not—look,” she sighed. “I don’t know exactly what I’m doing yet, okay? But I can’t fucking think when I’m not here. I’m no good to anyone. Am I thrilled that this is where I want to be? No. I have a lot of fucking mixed feelings but I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t look in the mirror when I try to leave this behind. Just give me a fucking minute. I’ll figure this out. Let me be here long enough for the rest of my sanity to come back and I’ll figure out what I can still do. I still want… everything I did before. I’ll help you, I just have to do it from here and I still… it’s still not them, okay. It was never about the Devisers. They’re as fucked as I am.”

“They didn’t run for the House.”

“Because I was the only one dumb enough to think I could function outside of this place.”

“Maybe it’s good to have a stupid streak.”

“Just leave them out of it.”

“It’s not like they’re goddamn irrelevant innocents, Justice.”

“I know. I know. It’s complicated. If you—it’s—they’re not what they seem. And I’ll have to lie low but I’m here if there’s—something.”

“If there’s what?”

“I don’t know! Something I can do. Don’t count me out. I can get names out of the lottery before they do anything to attract attention. I’ll have extra money to give to people. Really, I’m not doing much less. And I’ll actually have a brain, if a bit less time and nerve.”

“You know what people want to be doing,” said Licinius, back to that terrible gentleness. “What side of that do you want to be on?”

“Let me die here then. They’re idiots if they think these are the right people to kill and I’m not going to side with idiots anyway.”

“I can’t believe they got to you this much,” Licinius mumbled.

“They did before you ever met me.”

“Fine, I can’t believe I’m fucking blind. You think they’ll forgive you? Really?”

“Yes,” she said, but it came out uncertain.

“What do you know about the new Lead?”

Justice shrugged. “Jack shit. Exactly what you’re hearing on the news.”

“I know you said the old one didn’t _talk about it_ much but, really?”

“It’s. Yeah. It’s as weird as it sounds. Unless it changed.”

“And you think this stranger is going to be glad to have you around?”

“We’ll see.”

“What do you figure they make of me being here? Whoever knows?”

“Well, Malka figured out we were fucking during the election.”

“You told her?”

“Not really.” Justice laughed. “You only get so many secrets around here. Someone figures out the rest. That one wasn’t… going into my actual secret count.”

Licinius scowled, amused but also displeased by this. “Whatever.”

...

No one was sure what to expect from this meeting yet. For all the speculation circulating, most of the Devisers were acting—or trying to—as if it were any other meeting. Seated around the glass conference table, gray sunlight streaming in through the clouds and the window wall—they looked at the schedule, drank coffee, and talked much less than usual.

Lavender had arrived just slightly early, to avoid any small talk—and was the only one standing, near her spot at the head of the table, pulling up something on the screen there, the computer functions built into the glass.

All of the Devisers were there, except for one, who entered through the sliding door.

Rissa jumped up at the new arrival. “Deviser Justice Levana, funny running into you here.” She wielded the _Deviser_ title like a weapon.

“I happen to work here, as you pointed out.”

They had the attention of the room; Justice had barely finished the sentence when Rissa finished crossing the distance to the door, drawing a knife and trying to pin Justice to the wall with the blade against her throat; Justice deflected her, drawing a blade of her own, but went for the most peaceful evasion she could manage, a split second skirmish meant to intimidate more than anything else. Not the most atypical thing around Contrivance Headquarters.

Rissa laughed harshly. “You’ve been practicing. Good for you, sweetheart.” The endearment was a weapon too, sharper between them than either of the blades.

“I thought I might have to keep up with you.” Still, violence done, Justice was comfortable—or uncomfortable—enough to adjust her glasses, her cardigan, though her eyes stayed on Rissa.

Neither of them, captured in their moment, seemed to notice—though most of the other Devisers had—Lavender slowly pacing over to where the two of them were; behind Rissa now, she managed to quickly yank the knife out of her distracted grip.

Rissa didn’t notice in time to stop her, but whirled around, didn’t pursue getting it back immediately, watched Lavender flip the blade back into the handle. She simply held out her other hand to Justice, who, looking unsure, reluctantly handed her the knife she had drawn.

Lavender flipped that one shut too, looking if not feeling nonchalant. “Any other weapons?”

Justice shook her head, swaying her strawberry blonde ponytail.

“No,” said Rissa, glaring, gaze the same color as the steel weapons and twice as dangerous.

“You’re lying.” Coaxing, not accusatory.

Rissa rolled her eyes and placed another knife in Lavender’s hand. “You think she isn’t?” She tilted her head at Justice. “I wouldn’t trust what she says.”

Lavender gave a deliberate shrug. “I can see her choosing just one particular knife. I think you’d recognize this.” She held it up, gave Rissa a better view of it. Rissa scowled at it. For the others, Lavender read the engraving on the handle: “ _Dear Justice, Happy 24th. Love, Rissa.”_

Justice was slowly turning as red as the waves of Rissa’s waist length hair.

“Sit,” Lavender told the two of them, and at this Ritter also stood and half dragged Rissa back to her chair before sitting again himself. Justice, still flustered, sat. “You can have these back when I’m not trying to hold a meeting.” She sounded like a mother trying to convince her children to play nicely, pacing slowly back to her place at the head of the table.

She placed the three knives on the table to the left of her screen, between her and Malka. With a little smile, produced one more from a hidden pocket and set it there as well.

She looked up at the room. “Any other questions? … Comments? … Concerns?” Slow, baiting. No one took it. You could’ve heard a pin drop. “No?” she asked, with a soft edge of disappointment. “Excellent.” Sharper. “Then now that we’re eighty-six seconds behind schedule, we can begin.”

...

“You came back.”

A whisper from Justice’s office doorway, as the door closed; at any point in the last two years, it would have been a sleep deprivation induced hallucination, a whisper from a dream, a nightmare.

“I did.”

She hadn’t been alone with Rissa in an equally long time. The only time she’d seen her at all, that first group meeting, she’d been greeted with a knife at her throat.

And this didn’t seem real; she’d gone over this scenario so many times in her head that this had to be a dream, another rehashing, but here they were.

Rissa slapped her.

That… wasn’t terribly surprising.

Stung a little, physically and emotionally, but not surprising. “Fair,” she said, surprised at how calm she sounded. “But like I said, I work here now, so you might want to stop jumping me in meetings.”

“You work here _for_ now.”

“I’m staying,” said Justice, and it was something she had never promised before. Rissa heard the weight in the words. “And—”

“And feeding anything useful to whoever it is you’ve befriended?”

There was no point denying _everything._ “Nothing that will hurt you or the others.” That was the promise she’d always made herself, a promise she felt confident making Rissa now.

Rissa stared at her. Shouting would’ve been better. Hitting her again would’ve been better.

“I love you,” Justice offered. “And I won’t let anything else I care about hurt you again. I missed you. Every day. And I’d miss you forever if I let something hurt you. I’d never forgive myself.”

“You say that like it’s an apology.”

“Then I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry you were right about me. And I’m trying to learn how to rebuild bridges instead of burning them or designing them to collapse.” She laughed. “I don’t blame you. You have every right to be angry. But I’m not. For what it’s worth.”

“Well I’m fucking sorry I was right about you too,” said Rissa, and slammed the door on her way out.

…

Rissa couldn’t sleep.

Sometimes she was fairly certain she had never actually slept since her birth, and sometimes that bothered her less than others. The more people awake with her, the more she felt like it was normal—at least their normal. But tonight, Ritter snored peacefully beside her, not even seeming in the grasp of a nightmare. No one was online—no Lavender, no Malka, even.

The silence, the darkness, the exhaustion were all too heavy.

She rolled over and fumbled to grab a tablet from the side of the bed. The blue light of it was blinding and she tried to turn the brightness all the way down with her eyes as closed as they could get.

Finally she managed to check her messages. One she’d seen as a notification and answered in person, from Ritter, about dinner. One actually unread from Lavender, about the sound simulations, as if at whatever time she sent this—3:06 AM—Rissa was supposed to care about work or anything else.

At least she hadn’t sent Justice to hunt her down yet, which seemed to be the new Lead Deviser’s favorite way of addressing Rissa’s irritably unanswered messages. Not unanswered because she slept. Just trying to get a reaction while she got actual work done.

A new message popped up, in a full group chat.

_Justice: Where did the lighting sim files go?_

Well, apparently someone else was awake. Someone she knew could also feel the heaviness of the darkness and silence as clearly as if it were too many feet of water.

_3:48 AM. Two users online now._

_Rissa: UrbDep- >Sims->Cinematic->Lighting NEW_

There, let Lavender see the group message response to Justice and no private message response to her and let her figure that out before she sent Justice after her again.

_Justice (private message): What are you doing up?_

Like she didn’t understand.

 _Rissa: What am I_ not _doing?_

She sent it almost on autopilot. Justice had always been a powerful magnet, answering her, even with a bullshit response, a powerful instinct. They had never learned to just coexist—rivals or lovers or strangers and never anything neatly in between.

_Justice: Pissing off security?_

_You’ve got some fucking nerve,_ thought Rissa, and said: _Meet me in five._

It was not a very generous timeline to go from bed to the Contrivance Headquarters transportation garage, and it wasn’t meant to be. If she thought about this too hard, she’d kill Justice before they managed to get in the car. And she wanted to get that far. Proximity to Justice felt like drowning and felt like the one moment of air, all at once.

Clothes shoved on—full cloak, tall boots, magenta blouse with ruffles and bell sleeves, black leggings—she didn’t bother with anything else except a quick mirror check. Let her hair be a mess—she could use it as evidence to guilt Justice about interrupting her sleep somehow. That she didn’t care enough to do it.

Note for Ritter. He’d wake up and panic. No, she wasn’t on the roof. She even admitted she was going with Justice. Ritter—forgiving, kind, gentle Ritter—knew Justice wouldn’t let her get hurt, even if Rissa barely trusted that herself.

She was out the apartment door. Showtime.

She knew how to flip that switch, even if she didn’t do it at the moments the others liked.

Still, she gave the first security agent to make eye contact with her a charmingly arrogant smirk, and promised, “We won’t go far,” as he eyed her, and Justice, and the way Rissa tilted her head at him, and then handed her the keys.

She was very aware of security trailing her. She had never liked the feeling of being followed. She didn’t even like too much space behind her to allow that feeling to sneak in; the only thing she liked less was being cornered. She jingled the keys at Justice as a way of saying _success!_ and said, “Get in,” climbing into the driver’s seat. “I hate tall people,” she announced, trying to not start with _why are we doing this._ Pulled the cloak out from under her before the clasp strangled her.

“Principle or actions?”

“Principle.”

At least Justice went with it, while she fixed the seat and mirrors.

Rissa drove in somewhat uneasy silence until she felt like they’d found an area they could actually drive in. Security was following too closely, and she scowled at them in the mirror.

She opened a window like that made the space less intimate, cold air on top of good AC, pulled out her vape pen she was glad was still in the pocket she thought it was in, and waited for Justice to say it as she took a long hit.

Right on cue. “You vape now?”

“No,” said Rissa easily, taking another hit. “Don’t tell Ritter.” As if Ritter didn’t know. Justice didn’t get actual secrets anymore.

“Okay.”

“It’s just when I drive. Can’t stand it indoors. Don’t know why.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to say something that almost sounded like a justification or watering it down. Justice hadn’t offered Ritter’s arguments, but they were there, waiting for a day Rissa might be willing to hear them.

“How much do you drive?”

She hated the concern in Justice’s voice. _What have I done to make you care so much?_ “However often I can before security gets too used to it.”

“Fair.”

“What are you fucking up in the lighting sims?” Better to change the subject. Work. But in a safe way. They did have to acknowledge each other as coworkers, apparently, and the lighting sims weren’t a particularly inspiring part of Contrivance to either of them.

“What am I _not_ fucking up in the lighting sims?”

“Pissing someone off enough?"

“You could help.”

 _Oh, sure. Fuck you._ “If I wasn’t stuck on the sound sims.”

“There’s that.”

“Yeah,” said Rissa. “There’s that.” Another long hit to physically keep her from saying, _Like I don’t do enough work, like I don’t get enough 3 AM questions, like I didn’t practically take over your department when you abandoned us._

“So what kind of things are you doing up besides pissing off security?” Justice asked.

“Pissing off Ritter.” She was getting good at non answer ripostes tonight. It was a dumb, accusing question.

“Doing what?”

 _Not forgiving you as fast as he is. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not taking my meds. Fighting with Malka._ “Vaping.”

Justice laughed. “It’s probably the last thing you need.”

“So are you,” she snapped. Justice was a far more addictive drug than the nicotine. Rissa had known it from the start, kept telling herself it would just be one more time, one more kiss, one more touch, one more hit.

“Yeah. There’s that.” Justice’s voice was smaller and Rissa hated the tone almost as much as she hated herself. _Say it,_ she told her mentally. _Say everything that would be fair. That I never let you in. That I told you every day I knew you would leave until it was a self fulfilling prophecy. That I really could’ve answered your calls when you were just hoping I wouldn’t change my voicemail greeting. That I could’ve sent a fucking Hanukah card or whatever._

She turned music on to make it less quiet, less heavy. Music Justice would hate, more screaming and less piano.

“Is Late Latte still around?” Justice asked. A pathetic attempt at changing the subject. The place they’d always ended their drives before. Something about her seemed almost really curious, though.

“They moved over like a block. But yeah.” Rissa indulged her.

“There’s a nice place on the far north of DC,” said Justice. “Not the same, but they make a good iced coffee.”

“Far north halfway to Rockville?” She wasn’t in the mood for the reminder of Maryland.

“Well. Yeah.”

“I heard there are some good bookstores along the border.” Memories. Ritter acting like he was subtle about the packages of annotated books he’d sent Justice, Ritter acting like Rissa was asleep when he answered her phone when Justice called late at night, Ritter coming home from a bookstore trip looking nervous and smelling like Justice’s perfume, faint like a memory of a dream but enough, with the look on his face.

“There are,” Justice agreed.

“He forgives you.” It felt weighty to say, to admit that _anyone_ forgave her even if it wasn’t Rissa herself. Forgive was a big word and one Rissa had never been good at. She had never forgiven her parents, never forgiven the world, and never gotten any forgiveness herself until she found she couldn’t shake Ritter’s doting affections or Malka’s motherly concern no matter what she did to them.

“He does,” Justice agreed.

“When did it become enough to stay?” she asked, too softly.

_“I love you. But it’s not enough to keep you, apparently. If it ever is, let me know.”_

“It always should’ve been.”

Rissa snorted. “Yeah. It always _should’ve_ been.” It hadn’t been. She was desperate to hear the _I changed_ speech, and Justice had given it to her again and again and never quite in the right way.

“I don’t think it became enough overnight. It… happened.”

“Losing the election.” She was just being mean, now. She didn’t care. She wanted to be out of the car and far away from Justice, almost as much as she wanted most of the world outside of the car to disappear and for them to be alone and for it to be years ago.

“No. Not that it hurt.”

Rissa wondered at exactly what point Justice and Licinius had become more than political opponents. If they still were. What the hell was going on in their minds. “You finished the roof project.” _Yes, I know about that. I’m not totally clueless._

“How did you know about that?”

“I knew the day you started.” She laughed, couldn’t quite stop, took another hit on the vape pen trying. Like suicide proofing the roof was anything more than a gesture. “And you brought the knife, day one.”

“Yeah.”

Rissa had pulled her knife to send a message. So, in a way, had Justice. Rissa’d recognized it long before Lavender read out the engraving. _Dear Justice, Happy 24th. Love, Rissa._ A gift to counter the _shitty taste in knives_ she critiqued.

“I… I never… it was always enough. That you love me. I was just dumb.”

“ _Loved.”_ She meant to say it harshly, through gritted teeth, a mockery of Justice’s belief that it was still true. It came out too soft, too much like, _but I wish I still did_ was silent on the end of it, and the word part—how much it sounded like she still did love her so much it hurt.

_“She’s a fucking idiot and a backstabber and a liar,” she had cried to Malka when Justice left. “And she’s brilliant and noble and gentle and I hate her and I love her.”_

“I don’t believe you,” said Justice now, on the past tense, looking a bit pouty. “What does it all feel like now, then?” Her eyes were on Rissa’s as they came to a red light, demanding and desperate and the color of the sea when you admitted it was more green than blue.

“Drowning.”

“Drowning,” echoed Justice.

“I built a house in a flood zone,” said Rissa. _See, not only Ritter knows things about your favorite political arguments._

Justice laughed enough to lighten the mood. “God, you sure did.”

_God, I sure did._

…

“So tell me about Clark.”

“What?”

Rissa closed Justice’s office door behind her. “If you want to play this game where you’re on our side, tell me about the other one. What did you and Clark get up to?”

“Okay,” said Justice, which wasn’t an answer. “I…” She was surprisingly unprepared for this conversation considering how many times she’d had it in her head. “Well, we fucked, for starters. Several times. Mostly just out of spite.”

“Obviously.”

Yeah, that really wasn’t news to _anyone_ here, was it? “We’re in touch. We fuck slightly less.”

“In touch about _what?_ ”

She didn’t really think Rissa was here to run off and report her. But certain information would be incriminating to an extent she cared about even if Rissa never went further than Ritter or Malka. “Not… much.” To be fair, it was true. She hadn’t _done_ terribly much thus far and things were tense with Licinius since she had gone back to the Devisers. Mostly, they theorized. Kept each other updated. Argued. “I know someone who runs safehouses,” she said bluntly, in a phrasing that incriminated no one knowable but herself, “for people who put up too public of a fight and need to hide. No one who did anything violent. I took a few names out of the lottery. I provide some supplies. Food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, bedding. I write some encouraging political philosophy that gets distributed. Nothing interesting.”

She was still stating all of this from a very defensive place. Hiding identities. Not lying, but making it very clear that no one who attacked the Devisers or tried could be helped by this. That she supplied only things that were of no danger to anyone—and did so very much on purpose, instead of giving anyone money. She didn’t say much about whom she’d gotten out of the lottery, and buried it in other things—it was possible Rissa could use that to go digging and write a program to see who was missing when you looked at more obscure records, something like that.

But she’d been honest. That was the extent of what she’d done so far.

“Nothing else?” Rissa asked.

“No,” said Justice, and Rissa looked at her silently for a long time, baiting her into saying more, but it didn’t work.

“Fine,” she sighed, and left.

…

“You can’t shut me out and blame me for leaving. I tried to get attached, I tried to stay, I tried to be with you and you just kept telling me no, no, no, you didn’t believe me, you didn’t trust me—”

“And why the fuck should I have?”

“Because I tried. I tried every single fucking day to get you to let me in and you just kept shoving me away. So I let you, I did what you never gave me a chance to not do and I left and now you’re crying that I abandoned you. What do you want? If you wanted me to stay so badly, why shut me out?”

“Because I was fucking scared, okay?” Rissa shouted at her. “Is that what you want to hear? What if I did let you in? And what if you left anyway? And why wouldn’t you leave? Because of me? Like I would make the fucking difference?”

The silence after was heavy. It was 2 AM. Justice’s mostly dark office. Everything was a shouting match and looking at her hurt. “I think you could have made the difference,” Justice said quietly, and, softer, “I don’t actually blame you for not letting me in.”

“Then who do you blame?”

 _Everyone else who’s ever hurt you._ “History.”

Rissa understood her, agreed maybe, but didn’t like it—that was written all over her face.

“I’m sorry,” Justice murmured, closing the small gap between them, her fingers brushing Rissa’s, “that I never made you feel like you could’ve made that difference.”

Rissa looked away, at where Justice was touching her, but didn’t yank her hand back. Her fingers started to close around Justice’s and then she released a shaky breath, shook her head, took a step back. “I hate you.” It came out too soft. The right tone for _I love you._ Desperately trying to convince herself.

“I know.” It came out equally soft and equally unconvinced. “I hate me, too.”

…

_Bitch it’s Saturday at 2 are you coming?_

It had been two and a half years.

_Give me five minutes._

Justice had not had _Saturday at 2_ as something she was a part of for so long that she had not even remotely expected Rissa’s message and was deeply unprepared, finishing a text conversation, throwing on gym clothes, the strap on her glasses, throwing a water bottle, phone, book because she couldn’t help herself, extra knife in the direction of her bag, tightening her ponytail—and heading for the sixth floor.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said to Bridget halfheartedly, whom she had not seen in far too long and felt a sudden rush of affection for the martial arts coach who had usually been a background item.

“Good to see you again,” Bridget said simply, with a slight, knowing smirk.

Rissa was clearly interested in making a show of this, and Justice nearly jumped when Rissa kissed her cheek with a bigger smirk than Bridget’s.

She could have just said, a week ago, _Hey, do you wanna come to practice next week?_

But, no, _Bitch it’s Saturday at 2 are you coming?_ like Justice was just supposed to be there, at what was probably more like 2:05. She hadn’t actually checked the time until she was almost there, at 2:11, like it mattered.

She had no idea what this meant, but thankfully Bridget had not gone soft in the last two and a half years, and she soon didn’t have much energy to overthink it with. By the time she let them practice on each other, she had just enough… mostly adrenaline and leftover caffeine, to get her body to move in the right directions, but not to think about anything else. She couldn’t overthink Rissa’s hands on her when she was trying to escape ending up in another chokehold or pin. By the time she ended up in the first joint lock of the day she swore loudly even as Rissa released her.

“Keep trying, sweetheart,” Rissa said, voice dripping sweetness, nudging her with her foot. “You can do it.”

That was an invitation if she’d ever heard one, and she lunged at her again before Bridget could offer comment on the last round. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t managed to catch Rissa yet today and she apparently wasn’t going to now—something she realized several seconds before her back actually hit the wall behind her, hard enough to release the breath she’d been holding despite all of Bridget’s advice. It was an almost playful, unofficial round—for them—and it was a familiar feeling, trying to kick her way out of Rissa’s grip with Rissa’s fingertips at her throat, the smirk she gave her before letting her go, her fingers unnecessarily trailing on Justice’s skin, soaked with sweat.

Justice’s eyes followed Rissa’s touch and Bridget cleared her throat pointedly. “You two want a minute?”

“Not at all,” said Rissa.

And so it went, until four, when Bridget offered some final advice they could follow without her throughout the week and left. And usually this was the part where they’d really just play fight, or bitch about work, or piss off security and get out adrenaline on a way too fast drive, or go bother Ritter about dinner, or fall asleep on the couch together. But today Rissa flicked her shoulder and said, “Maybe you didn’t practice as much as I thought. I can still take you,” with something between a playful smile and arrogant smirk, and left without her.

There was…

That was…

Justice thought of little else throughout the next week. Rissa said nothing of it and avoided her altogether, and even Ritter, besides a knowing glance now and then, said nothing, as they talked about other things. Asking, saying something, doing something, was like losing. _Anything_ close to the subject was sheer tacenda. Losing.

It felt like losing anyway, when someone kicked her in meetings when Lavender had been trying to get her attention for more than five consecutive seconds and Justice was not responding to verbal cues.

Then she had to decide what the fuck to do when it was Saturday again and she was eyeing the clock. She had been thinking about it all week. Show up? Finally say something? Hide, see if she could bait Rissa into inviting her—if you could call what she had done last time that?

But at 1:55 she was feeling brave and went upstairs. Neither Bridget nor Rissa commented on this until after, when Rissa’s departing comment was, “I should make you cover half of Bridget’s pay again.”

Justice said, “It should be covered by sheer entertainment value,” when Rissa was already walking away, but she turned, smirked, and said:

“You’re welcome to negotiate with her.” And then didn’t quite turn to leave again.

Which meant Justice was supposed to say something, and what came out was, “Show me how to do that front choke defense again. How you don’t swing yourself off balance when you get back.”

The look Rissa gave her was calculating, evaluating what she really wanted out of this, but she said, “Okay,” and shrugged her bag off her shoulder, which hit the ground with a dramatic thud. She walked over to her, placed Justice’s hands where they would be for an attack like touching her was easy, and said, “So, you’ve already got this part.” Looping her hands over Justice’s arms and pulling them out, off of her, but a mime of the gesture as Justice followed her movements, barely prodding her with her knee. “But, you were moving back without knowing where your body was or where the ground was.” She moved the leg she had kneed her with behind her, and said, “That foot hits the ground and stays there. You’ll get the angle from muscle memory. Your next step back is with your other foot, and then you shuffle back as normal, and start throwing strikes again or whatever. You tried to take a step with the back foot twice in a row, I think.”

She was right, and that was a dumb clumsy mistake. She was out of practice. She’d never found a good coach in Maryland that she got along with, and to be fair, it had taken Rissa more time than Justice had been away for to find Bridget, and Justice had been spoiled tagging along with her without the effort of finding her own good private coach. “Okay. Try it.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when Rissa moved for her, and Justice tried what she had said—her angle was still off when she moved her leg back, but that first step was with the correct foot. “Better,” said Rissa, without much enthusiasm. “But I should go. We’ll try it next week.”

That, at least, was an invitation to _next week._

It didn’t get her anywhere during the week between those times, but she at least felt like this was going _somewhere,_ not a random once off incident for her to analyze again and again until some other random thing happened.

The next session was uneventful. The one after, Rissa tried to look disinterested afterwards when she said, “Ritter’s making steaks tonight. Said to invite you,” as if Ritter sent along any messages to her without Rissa’s approval.

“I, uh, sure. Yeah. I’d like that.”

And she felt a little like a lost puppy, following Rissa home, and wasn’t sure what look exactly Ritter was giving her while he prepped food and Rissa went to shower and Justice just kind of splashed water on her face like it would fix something, and said, “Okay. What the fuck?” because at this point, she couldn’t take it anymore, and her and Ritter had always had that silent agreement that they could say _what the fuck_ when Rissa was up to something.

Ritter just laughed though, and put an arm around her waist from beside her and squeezed. “I have about as much idea as you do.”

But it broke that window of not saying it. And she laughed too, and then they argued about the safe range of politics until Rissa emerged from one of the bedrooms, and sat at the little round dining table next to Justice and told them they were both idiots for caring, and Justice felt like it was all kind of okay. They ate and Justice was half in a food coma when she left, happier than she had felt in a long time.

And the next week, after a work week of Rissa acting almost as normal as Rissa ever did, whatever normal was before, minus a few key pieces, when Rissa walk and talked her into following her home, and Ritter wasn’t even there, it felt like they were a few small steps off of normal. She half sat up on the couch and drank some water while Rissa refilled hers, and then Rissa flopped on the couch with her, her head on Justice’s stomach, her arm over Justice’s waist, their legs tangled together, and was half asleep before Justice dared to stroke her hair out of her face, and her heart was still pounding in her last memory before she fell asleep.

Rissa was still asleep when she woke, and Ritter was raising an eyebrow at her from the kitchen and she gave him a rather deer in the headlights _I have no idea_ look back. He stifled a laugh and Rissa woke like everything was normal soon enough, probably roused by Justice’s rapidly rising pulse, and acted like everything was fine, and Justice didn’t leave until after a late, lingering dinner.

On Monday, Rissa twirled Justice’s hair around her hand and kissed her cheek when she left after coming to her with what seemed like a genuinely innocent work question.

On Tuesday, Justice walked into Rissa’s office, closed the door behind her more loudly than she meant to, wordlessly grabbed her and kissed her properly, because dammit, she was tired of being a step behind in this game. Rissa kissed her back, and the kiss was everything it wasn’t supposed to be, sweet and loving and gentle and slow and tender and no less passionate for it compared to their sparring and anger; it had no quippy remarks or sarcasm implied in its touch but _I love you I missed you I’m sorry_ and when they pulled away, the silence was too long before Rissa said, “Don’t go all sappy on me now,” with halfhearted teasing, flicking her arm. And Justice realized she was kind of crying a little, and that probably ruined any power in getting a step ahead. She laughed, and it came out tearful, and Rissa kissed her again, and Justice wondered how long it had been since the first point she could have done this again with this reaction, the kiss, Rissa’s arms around her neck, one of Justice’s hands buried in Rissa’s hair, the other at her back, the sheer lack of space between them.

…

Slowly, it became a part of the new normal. Everyone knew soon enough. Justice had never figured out quite how that happened, but it did. And the more everyone knew, the more they didn’t hide anything further. Rissa had even called Justice her girlfriend, if vaguely sarcastically, in a full group meeting, with a certain casualness that no one acknowledged.

They finally—with Ritter—had to have the _what even is polyamory_ conversation, accidentally, over dinner, and Rissa said, “I really don’t care if you two fuck,” gesturing at the other two. "Knock yourselves out. And I don’t really care if you keep fucking Clark, if that’s about the most interesting thing you two are doing,” Rissa said to Justice. “No bringing home babies or diseases. Either of you.”

 _Romance_ rather than _sex_ came up at one point, and Ritter groaned, “Who has the fucking time?” and that was approximately the agreement they came to.

…

Later: “Why don’t you just fucking live here?” Rissa asked Justice one sleepy morning, trying to get another five minutes of pretending to sleep in while Justice tried to get dressed and complained that none of them had done laundry and she’d have to resort to clothes she barely liked that were still in her own apartment. And then she lived there. She didn’t totally empty the other apartment of the random duplicates and whatnot, but it became mostly just more prepper storage, something Ritter, at least, was happy about.

…

Rissa, arms crossed and leaning against Lavender’s office doorway, said, “Fine, let’s make the paperwork as easy as it can be.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Could you not play dense for once?” Seeing Lavender’s expression, she huffed. “Fine, you’re just actually slow. A ‘consensual relationship agreement’.”

“So, one problem,” said Lavender. “You’ve already signed a consensual relationship agreement.”

“She forged it?”

“No. The one with your husband.”

It dawned on her. “Oh.”

“Policy is currently that one would be signed to prevent future harassment claims. None of you are entering a relationship with a supervisor or a direct report, or someone with a different security clearance level, so most other serious claims are irrelevant. The question then is, can you sign one for more than one person at a time, especially since you’re legally married to one of them, and if you can, do all three of you need to be involved. None of which is currently addressed. Adultery isn’t grounds for divorce or a crime in DC, but it is recognized regardless of gender, and does have legal relevancy—and this would be a form of evidence, something that probably has to get noted somewhere.”

“You know all that off the top of your head but didn’t know what paperwork I was talking about?”

“I looked it up a long time ago for… if this should come up.”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone and their fucking grandma saw this coming. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/contrivance-requests/).
> 
> Want fun extras like character art and fonts? Check [this](https://hannahthescribe.com/contrivance/%22) out.


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